This Side of Providence (8 page)

I shut myself in the bathroom to be alone. It's the only door in the house with a lock that works from the inside. I feel like I'm gonna faint or puke or shit my pants. I close my eyes and the room starts to spin so I grab onto the sink to keep from falling. Everything inside me feels hot and tight. I make a fist and punch the wall. It feels good so I do it again. The second time hurts. And the third. Luz knocks on the door. I hear her call my name but I don't answer.

My hand is throbbing. I turn on the sink and run the cold water over it. It feels nice for a second, but then it starts to burn from being so cold. When both my hands are numb I turn off the water. I hold onto the sink but I can't feel anything. It looks like a toy in my hands. I try to tear it off the wall but it
don't move. I wish I was strong enough to break things. When I see my reflection in the mirror I start to cry.

After a while Luz knocks on the door again. She tells me that Teacher's on the phone. I don't want to talk to anyone, not even her, so I don't answer. Luz knocks again, softer this time, and I watch the doorknob turn. The latch is locked so the door doesn't open.

“Damn you, Cristo,” Luz says through the closed door. “You're not the only one who's scared.”

I'm not scared
, I want to yell through the door, but then I look at my face in the mirror and know she's right.

Luz

E
ver since César got shot that's all my brother wants to talk about. How great his friend is. Whatever. I'm sorry the kid got shot but truth be told he's annoying, hyperactive, and a bad influence on my brother. Okay, okay, and he's also pretty funny. But to make him out to be a saint? I don't think so. Saints don't leave chewed bubble gum on the doorknob to the girls' bathroom, or stick a wet finger into your ear while you're waiting in the lunch line. I really hope he doesn't die. Then everybody's going to rewrite history and say he was a perfect angel and could have grown up to be president.

They take him to Hasbro Children's Hospital and he ends up staying in the ICU for a week. The doctors perform eight operations in five days and they still can't get the bullet out. They say it's stuck in his scalp, above his right ear, and for now it's better to just leave it there. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to walk around with a bullet in my head, thank you very much. But he's still alive so I guess he can't complain. Not that he's saying much of anything. They keep telling us he's not in a coma, he's just unconscious, and they say other funny things like he's “out of the woods” even though it's still “touch and go.” It reminds me of hospital scenes in soap operas, which sometimes make me feel like none of this is real. No matter what they say, all I know is this: we can talk to him as much as we want and he still won't respond. Which is a first for César. It must be killing him to be so quiet.

When we get to the hospital Cristo won't even walk into the
room. He stands in the hallway with his hands in his pockets and peeks in through the window. I'm not sure what he's looking at, since most of it's covered up by get-well cards the kids in his class made. At first I think his grandmother put them up, though she isn't the sentimental type, but later I overhear the nurses saying it was their idea. Miss Valentín says it's sweet but I think it's kind of pathetic. César's not even awake yet. And when he is, he's going to have a lot more to worry about than where to hang those silly cards. I bet most of the kids won't even come to visit him.

I stand by the candy machine and try not to be seen. It works for a long time, but then Miss Valentín notices me and asks if I want to see him. I don't, but I don't want her to think I'm a baby so I say, “Yeah.” I thought the room would be quiet but it's real loud inside. One machine has a steady, high-pitched beep that sounds like a smoke alarm when the battery's dying. Another one vibrates so much I can feel my teeth shaking. The walls are a blinding white that makes my eyes water like I'm crying even though I'm not. But I bet this room has seen a lot of tears. The only color in the room is from a bright red teddy bear sitting on the windowsill. The bear stares out the window like he's looking for someone to take him away from here.

I glance around the room slowly, looking at César last. He's the smallest thing here except for the teddy bear. I take a deep breath and walk right up to the side of the bed. My sneakers squeak against the floor with each step. No way did I think I would ever hold hands with César Martinez, but his fingertips are peeking out of the covers and they seem like they need to be held. His skin is warm and it feels kind of nice actually, a reminder to me that he's still alive. I know it doesn't really count but I can tell people I've held hands with a boy now, if it ever comes up during Truth-or-Dare at a sleepover. Not that I go to sleepovers. But still.

His head is wrapped in gauze, like a mummy from an old movie, and the tubes coming from his nose and mouth are taped down to his cheek so they won't move. His right eye is covered with a bandage the size of my hand. The left one is bare and it keeps twitching every few seconds like he's about to wake
up. I've watched cats sleep and they do the same thing when they dream.

Miss Valentín leans down to whisper in my ear.

“You can talk to him if you want.”

“No. That's okay.”

She smiles. “The doctors think it might help. For him to hear familiar voices.”

I try to think of something to say to him, about how hot it is outside or about the nurse whose fingernails have miniature American flags painted on them, or the fact that it's my birthday tomorrow and I'm finally going to be double digits, but none of it seems very important.

Instead, I turn to Miss Valentín and say, “Look at his eyes. They twitch like a cat who's dreaming.”

“That's a good sign,” she says. “It means he's healing.” She squeezes my shoulder in a half-hug. “Trust me, Luz. Everything's going to be fine.”

I nod, even though I'm not sure I believe her. The weight of her hand feels good, like a heavy blanket. She smiles down at me, but I turn away. I'm trying to remember the last time a grownup touched me.

A few minutes later, Cristo finally comes into the room. He sits in the chair next to César's bed and buries his face in his baseball hat. He cries without making a sound. I feel bad but I know I can't comfort him. He's the type of kid who can't even comfort himself. Instead, I grab my book and leave him alone in the room. Even when the cops took my mother away he didn't cry like this. Maybe it's different when it's someone your own age, or someone who might never come home again.

At eight o'clock the nurse goes in and tells him visiting hours are over. She tries to grab his hand, but Cristo jerks away and tells her to leave him alone. Miss Valentín is on the pay phone in the hallway, but as soon as she hears his voice she hangs up. I pretend to keep reading my book, but I'm listening to every word. The nurse tells him to calm down, that she's sure César's going to be all right.

“It's Say-zar, not See-sir,” Cristo says, loudly. “How do you expect him to wake up if you're not even calling him the right name?”

The nurse doesn't say anything else. She looks at César's chart, and writes something down before leaving. Miss Valentín thanks her and tells Cristo to get his things. He starts to complain but she gives him a look like my mother used to give us when we said we didn't want to eat rice and beans again for dinner. She takes both our hands and walks us out of the hospital before Cristo can insult anyone else. I can tell from the looks we get that people think she's our mother. It makes me smile, to imagine I have a family that's all together in one place.

That night, after he turns out the lights, I think I can hear Cristo praying. At first I think he's talking to me so I peek over the side of the bunk bed to look down at him. He sleeps on the bottom bunk, mostly because he's afraid of heights and won't admit it. His eyes are closed and he's lying completely still. He's always saying he doesn't believe in God, but under the covers it looks like his hands are clasped together. I watch his lips move in the darkness.

On the street I can hear a man yelling something I don't understand. I lie back in my bed and look at the ceiling. It looks close, but when I reach out my hand to touch it I don't feel anything but air. Cristo's voice startles me.

“I had a dream about César last night. A nightmare.”

“What happened?”

“A long time went by and he never woke up.”

“How long?”

“A couple of months.”

“Did he die?” I turn over in my bed. The mattress is thin and I can feel the coiled-up springs pushing against my backside.

“I just told you, he never woke up.”

“Oh,” I say. “That's sad.”

I look around the tiny room, wondering why it looks so much smaller in the dark. Cristo is quiet for a while so I think he must be asleep. I watch Trini's chest move up and down under the sheet. Her feet poke through the bars of the crib, almost touching Cristo's bed. In a few months she'll be tall enough to reach him.

Suddenly Cristo speaks again.

“But that's not the horrible part.”

“It's not?” I lean over the edge to look at him. His eyes are still closed. “What else happened?”

“When they unwrapped the bandages, it was my face. It was me lying dead in that hospital bed.” His voice cracks and I hear him take a deep breath. I can feel the bed shaking beneath me.

Without saying anything I climb down from the top bunk and join my brother on his bed. He turns onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow. I rub his back through the sheet, like I've watched my mother do a hundred times. He doesn't move or say anything. After a while his breathing evens out and I know he's asleep, but I still keep rubbing his back until my hand is numb and I can't feel the difference between his body and mine.

I wake up on my birthday to a shopping bag sitting at the end of my bed.
Feliz Cumpleaños
is written on the side of the bag in purple magic marker, my favorite color. Inside I find a new pair of sneakers, a package of tube socks with pink stripes, and a key chain with the Puerto Rican flag on it.

Cristo peeks over the railing, standing halfway up the ladder. “Happy birthday,” he whispers. A crooked smile splits his face.

“Thanks.”

Trini jumps up and down in her crib, singing a made-up song about birthdays and butterflies that seems to have no tune.

“It's from Mami,” Cristo says, “before she went away.”

I smile, even though I know it's a lie. I don't bother asking him where he got the money. The sneakers look too big but I try them on anyway. They fit okay with two pairs of socks. Cristo says they'll be perfect come fall and I nod just to agree with him.

“Where's Lucho?” I ask, listening for sounds of her in the other room.

“Gone already.” Cristo lifts Trini out of the crib. “She's working a double, remember?”

“Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment by chewing on one of my braids.

“But I'm sure she'll bring you a surprise when she comes back. A cake or something.” He hands Trini a sippy cup with chocolate milk in it.

“Whatever.” I take off the sneakers and put them in the closet so they don't get lost. “I don't need cake.”

“Everybody needs cake on their birthday,” Cristo says, sitting down to tie his sneakers. “Maybe Scottie will have some for you. He likes cake.”

“So? He also likes pit bulls and strippers.”

Cristo laughs. “You're crazy, Luz.”

I blush, and feel a tickle of pride in my stomach. It's been a long time since I made my brother smile.

“I gotta go call Marco. We're trying to get his
tio
to give us a ride to the hospital.” He checks his watch. “Scottie should be here soon, okay?” He kisses Trini on the top of her head. “
Adios, chiquita
. Have fun.” She's still blowing him kisses when he walks out the door.

Trini wants frozen waffles for breakfast but since we don't have any I give her the last piece of bread, toasted and covered with cinnamon and sugar. When she asks what it is I tell her it's a Belgian waffle, something I read about in a magazine at the teacher's lounge at school. I find some Cream of Wheat for myself and make it with warm water from the tap.

“When's Scottie coming?” Trini asks later, licking the sugar off the plate like a cat. I think it's weird to call your father by his first name, but what do I know? I don't call my father anything.

I tell her noon, which is the same time he comes every Saturday. It hasn't changed since he moved out. When Scottie lived here he treated us like we were his own. He yelled a lot, but he also gave good piggyback rides and Christmas presents, and would always let me keep the money I found in his pockets. Now he doesn't do any of that stuff anymore. He usually doesn't even come inside, he just pulls his car into the driveway and honks till we bring Trini out to him. If I didn't put the car seat in myself he wouldn't even use one. Which is scary because even when he's not drunk he's a bad driver. He once got a ticket for
going sixty-five in a school zone and was crazy enough to say the cop was racist. Which doesn't even make sense because Scottie doesn't look like anything. Nothing bad anyway. He doesn't look black or Puerto Rican or even Mexican. He looks like he could be from anywhere.

After we eat I get Trini ready early. I braid her hair and put her in a new dress our neighbor gave us after her daughter outgrew it. It's a little long because Trini's so tiny, but it makes her look cute, just like a doll. Then I put her in the crib so she won't run around and get dirty. I braid my hair, too, and put on the only nice outfit I own, a light pink Easter dress with matching pumps that my mother bought at the Salvation Army. It's long-sleeved, too hot for this weather, but when I look in the mirror I know it's just right. I look pretty, like one of those models in a fashion magazine, and almost like a grownup. I
am
ten after all, as of this morning. Double digits. All the fingers on my hands.

We're standing outside on the porch when a spray-painted black car pulls up in front of the house. A white guy with a buzz cut and tattoos gets out and leans over the roof.